


Part 6: Moving Mountains

by kw20742



Series: Something Like Love [7]
Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Canon Lesbian Relationship, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kw20742/pseuds/kw20742
Summary: Missing scene from 2.5. Evening.Maggie’s favourite poem by Victorian/modernist poet Charlotte Mew can be found in its entirety at https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/road-sea. It is in the public domain.





	Part 6: Moving Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene from 2.5. Evening. 
> 
> Maggie’s favourite poem by Victorian/modernist poet Charlotte Mew can be found in its entirety at https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/road-sea. It is in the public domain.

Jocelyn finds herself quite unexpectedly on the paved footpath across from the _Echo_. She had been unable to settle down to work after court, despite the fact that there is much to do in advance of tomorrow’s session.

Ben learned last thing this afternoon that the defence is planning to call Tom Miller, and so they’ve been attempting for the last two hours to strategize the various potential implications of this development. She hasn’t even yet had a chance to familiarize herself with the file Sharon’s team provided, but, based on his own quick read, Ben seems to think (and Jocelyn is inclined to agree) that because they’ve chosen not to put Joe in the box, a son speaking in support of the father he loves is, from the defence’s perspective, the next best thing.

Turning out to her cherished sea, Jocelyn inhales the deliciously briny air. A pair of gulls are picking their way across the car park, foraging their dinner from what Jocelyn can only imagine is already a veritable buffet of sticky toffee, dropped ice cream cones, and crumbs left in chip packets soggy with vinegar. And the tourists haven’t even begun to arrive en masse yet. Out on the bay, boats dip and nod on the incoming tide. As much as she misses London, it is good to be home again.

Her thoughts turn to the possibility of taking her own boat out, perhaps this weekend if the weather cooperates. She hasn’t been out since just before the start of the trial, and she can listen to Ben’s files just as well on the bay as in the house. Wouldn’t it be lovely if Maggie—but no! Not yet. There would be too much history to negotiate, and it would not be the relaxation she needs. And if Maggie’s still as terrified of boats and the sea as she was back then… Perhaps there will be an opportunity to invite her out again soon, in the summer maybe. But there are some things that she must say first. While they’re both firmly on dry land. The better to enable walking away if that becomes necessary; she has no desire to take Maggie out on the boat, confess her love, and then keep the object of her long, smoldering affection held hostage for what would be an interminable journey back into harbour if it all goes horribly wrong.

Shuddering at that thought and its dreadful implications, Jocelyn takes another slow, deep, cleansing breath. This is the negotiation she continues to bump up against: Right now, she has Maggie in her life. It’s not enough, of course. She wants so much more. But what if she _does_ tell her all that needs to be said, but Maggie rejects her, and their friendship is ruined in the process? At least the status quo includes Maggie; to be without her is inconceivable.

Coming back to her current professional concern, Jocelyn thinks, “Let’s hope Ben and I are right about the defence’s reason for calling Tom.” She knows that the chances of a successful prosecution have already been significantly – _drastically_ – reduced by mistakes made by the police during the investigation. Joe Miller’s confession was a crucial cornerstone in her case, and now, without it… Thanks to D.I. Hardy’s procedural recklessness and not knowing that Ellie Miller had gone to Hardy’s hotel room, they cannot afford any more surprises.

The biggest problem looming before her tonight, though, is not _why_ the defence is calling Tom, but _how_ Jocelyn is going to approach the cross-examination. And to say she’s not looking forward to it is the understatement of the century. She’s always disliked having to cross-examine children; how is it even possible for her to do so without seeming like the withered old wicked witch of every brothers Grimm fairy tale ever written? So that the jury doesn’t turn against her? She’s never quite figured it out, in more than four decades of practice. And it’s gotten more difficult the older she gets, the more she has to contend with whatever preconceived notions a jury might have of how older women are supposed to behave. Or not, as the case may be.

Once she’s jumped that hurdle tomorrow morning, she’ll decide whether or not to call Mark into the box. She’d rather not let Sharon have a run at him. And it all depends, rather poignantly, on the evidence of a thirteen year-old boy. Danny Latimer’s schoolmate and the son of a murderer.

With a resigned sigh, she leans heavily against the low stone wall behind her. She finally gave up hope of working tonight (at least for the moment) and told Ben to go home. There’s no point keeping him from his other tasks while her mind whirls around and around on itself. He’ll check in with Mark to see if he can shed some light on anything that Tom might say in the box tomorrow and email the audio summary of Sharon’s file once he’s finished reading it. She can listen to it later. When her head is clearer.

So, she went for a walk. To ground herself. Along the cliff to the west, past the cemetery (with a short detour to visit her father's grave), down to Briar Cliff Beach, back over to the boardwalk, and up to the harbour. And now, here she is, outside Maggie’s office. Without actually having intended to come here. But of course, she had. Because her heart always leads her back to Maggie. One way or another.

 

***

Maggie is in her office atop the _Echo_ ’s tiny new newsroom, pounding away at her keyboard. It may seem to some as if Joe Miller’s trial is the only thing that matters in Broadchurch these days, but all evidence to the contrary can be found on the screen in front of her.

The digital layout of tomorrow’s edition features (of course) the ongoing saga unfolding at Wessex Crown Court, including the sidebar profile of Jocelyn that Maggie wrote yesterday evening. But there are also articles about a local charity shop damaged by vandals, the handful of events held last week to commemorate the 70th anniversary of the D-Day landings, a production of _Jane Eyre_ starring several local school children opening this coming week-end in Axminster, the ongoing reconstruction of coastal rail lines damaged in the February floods, and a missing ten year-old girl in Southhampton.

Maggie pinches the bridge of her nose underneath her reading glasses. That last one is hard, particularly now, since Danny. She can’t help but think of what the family is going through. And her colleagues at the Southhampton _Echo_. It’s true that city is a much bigger place than Broadchurch, but she jots a note down in her diary to call Jeremy, their editor, tomorrow anyway. Just to lend her support.

And then, of course, there’s the regular entreaty to locals and tourists alike from the coastguard and Dorset County Council to please, please, please, for the love of all things English, pay attention to warning signs and safety messages about tides and recent rock fall and stay the hell away from the edges and bases of cliffs. The tourists are often silly, but it’s the locals that are really stupid about it. Familiarity breeds complacency, which is never a recipe for success when you’re talking about falling boulders and tidal pools. It’s beautiful here, and Maggie loves it, but it really is a death trap if you don’t know what you’re doing. Which is why she stays far away from all things nautical. She would only ever break that rule for one person.

Leaning back in her chair, Maggie inhales deeply. This is her favourite time of every week: The final push on Wednesday evening before the paper goes to press in advance of distribution all across west Dorset in the wee hours of Thursday morning. This is when she most loves being an editor, getting to control the tone and politics of her own paper; as she keeps drilling into Oliver (hoping one of these days the lesson will stick), what you don’t publish is just as important as what you do. And those choices must come from a place of integrity, as well as a genuine desire to get as close to the truth of people’s lived experiences as possible. Maggie has always thrived on the buzz of the newsroom, the adrenaline rush that comes from chasing a story and then getting copy in just under deadline, the click-click-click of computer keyboards, and the camaraderie of colleagues. Admittedly, with just she, Olly, and Lucy left of a staff that numbered almost twenty not three years ago, the buzz is much quieter, but the camaraderie is easier, and the adrenaline rush is always the same.

She glances to the top-right of her computer screen: 7:37pm. They might just finish early tonight. Olly submitted his weekly crime report an hour ago and is now in the process of uploading content to the website, Lucy’s finishing up the classified ads, and she, Maggie, has just hit ‘print’ on a hardcopy mock-up of the front page and the news section.

Pushing her comfy old wheeled chair back from her desk, she gets up to go downstairs to the printer when, out her second-floor window, she spies Jocelyn across the street, half sitting on, half leaning up against the stone wall by the car park, looking out towards the bay.

Maggie can’t help the little leap her heart makes at the unexpected sight. First of all, Jocelyn’s got both brains _and_ beauty; let’s be clear about that. And Maggie is still physically, powerfully drawn to her. Even after all this time. Or maybe in spite of it. There’s literally no one in the world who challenges her as much intellectually, or makes her feel… _everything_ … so deeply. But, more significantly, it’s been Maggie who’s had to make the herculean effort of rebuilding their tattered friendship since Jocelyn moved back to Broadchurch, usually by tenaciously ignoring Jocelyn’s demands that she Go. Away. So, that Jocelyn has willingly come to _her_ this time may be proof that Lil had been right: Times change. People change.

She grabs her blazer off the back of her chair and her bag from the shelf behind her desk and heads downstairs. “I’m going out for a walk,” she declares, swinging into the blazer with a practiced flourish.

“Do you want these,” asks Olly, who’s at the printer examining pages of the hardcopy draft as it comes out of the drum.

“Leave them on my desk, would you? I’ll be back in an hour.” She lifts her bag over and across her shoulders.

“Right!” Olly replies, not even trying to hide his astonishment that Maggie would leave – even for a short time – in the middle of the weekly push.

“We’re in good shape,” she offers by way of an explanation, “Go ahead and finish what you’re working on, then go home. Have an early night; you’ve earned it. I’ll finish up when I get back.”

Olly and Lucy glance at each other, utterly surprised and bewildered.

Maggie’s almost out the door when she remembers to remind Oliver in no uncertain terms, “But website _only_ , petal. Don’t you _dare_ send the print edition to the publisher before I’ve had a chance to take a final look.”

Still shocked, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, he shakes his head vigorously in the affirmative while raising both hands in a _mea culpa_ gesture to indicate that he would never, ever dream of doing such a thing.

Knowing full well that he would most definitely _dream_ of it, but satisfied that he won’t actually _do_ it, Maggie arches an eyebrow in Lucy’s direction as if to say, “What are we ever to do with this cocky kid?” and heads out.

She’s traversed the little green in front of the office and crossed the road to the car park in less than ninety seconds. It only took her _that_ long because she had to wait for a lorry driver to unknowingly meander his way through a clearly marked pedestrian crossing.

 

***

Still looking out toward the bay, Jocelyn can barely breathe as she _feels_ rather than hears Maggie sidle up behind her.

“Hi, you,” Maggie whispers into Jocelyn’s ear, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Tempted to the core by the proximity and warmth of Maggie’s body, Jocelyn nearly surrenders to the urge to tilt her head down and rub her cheek against Maggie’s fingers. But, closing her eyes and inhaling sharply, she catches herself just in time to turn that abandoned little tilt of her head into what she hopes is a passable performance of a stress-relieving stretch. Smiling, she turns toward Maggie, “Hi, yourself.”

“You waiting for me?” Maggie asks, although her every internal organ is completing somersaults in celebration of the answer she already knows.

“I suppose I am.”

“You didn’t say you were coming by.”

Jocelyn shrugs. “I didn’t know I was until I got here.”

Maggie grins, breathing out a little giggle and drawing Jocelyn in to brush a kiss to her cheek. “I’m glad you did. It’s good to see you.”

“Yes,” Jocelyn teases jovially, “because it’s been _such_ a long time.” She can’t help a bit of mischief. It’s safe. And it’s what they do.

Never to be outdone, Maggie retorts, counting the time since she last saw Jocelyn at court, “Five hours may as well be fifty in the life of a journalist.” She snaps her fingers three times in rapid succession. “News stops for no one!”

Jocelyn chuckles, looking down to the sidewalk and then back up at Maggie, suddenly serious again. “I know it’s a busy night for you. Any chance you’ve time for a cup of tea?”

Maggie beams. “Believe it or not, I actually do!” She takes in a deep breath, suddenly desperate to enjoy this gorgeous evening breeze, and the company of the woman beside her. “But I’ve been cooped up all day. Could we get it to go? Walk a bit?”

“Sounds perfect,” Jocelyn smiles, looping her arm through Maggie’s.

 

***

Having observed all this from her vantage point at the window across the street, Lucy calls to Olly as he comes back down into the newsroom, “Oi! Whatchya make of _that_?!”

“What?” With the carrot of an early night dangling before him, he can think only of getting back to his computer now that he’s deposited the draft printouts onto Maggie’s desk upstairs. As directed.

She points. “Our boss, sweetie, and the Latimer’s barrister! Sure didn’t have _her_ down as a lezzie. Way too glamorous.”

Looking out across the street, Olly winces at his mum’s assumptions and objectionable language, made worse by the fact that she doesn’t really mean to be offensive. “I think,” he begins slowly, turning to Lucy with an enormous grin as Maggie and Jocelyn head off, arm in arm, toward the kiosks by the pier, “it’s bloody brilliant!”

 

*** 

Paper cups in hand, procured from the cafe on the pier just as it was closing for the evening, they stroll in companionable silence along the harbour front.

"So,” Maggie good-humoredly wonders aloud, “to what do I owe the honour of your visit this evening?”

To your strength, to your kindness, to your dazzling smile, Jocelyn wants to say. But she doesn’t. She will. Soon. But not tonight. “I just needed a break. I wanted to see you, hear your voice.” It has not escaped Jocelyn’s notice that this is precisely how she felt during those few short months fifteen years ago when Maggie quickly supplanted her mum as the person to whom she wanted to talk first if she’d had a bad day or news to share.

Maggie’s insides do another involuntary flip flop as she inquires, “Hard day?” She remembers as if it were yesterday that Wednesday afternoon in late September when Jocelyn called her for the first time, at work, out of the blue, just to chat. “I just wanted to talk to you,” Jocelyn had said then. And Maggie recognized the call for what it was, because she missed Jocelyn, too. That was just about the time when thoughts of where she’d ask Jocelyn to touch her, and how she would reciprocate, began to invade her dreams.

“Not particularly, no. Tomorrow will be harder.”

“Can you talk about it?”

It is a genuine question, as Maggie juggles her sincere desire to be available to Jocelyn as a friend with the knowledge that she may feel, professionally speaking, that she can’t talk with a journalist. And, Maggie reminds herself, should Jocelyn decide _not_ to confide in her in this moment, it’s not about any sort of lack of trust on Jocelyn’s part, but about the unfailingly ethical practice of this particular barrister. And Maggie can’t help but respect that. She expects nothing less from herself in her own work.

Jocelyn considers the question. She knows her friend Maggie won’t breach her confidence, and journalist Maggie will find out in court tomorrow any way. Exhaling, she discloses, “The defence is going to call Tom Miller.”

“No!” Maggie exclaims disbelievingly, her mind working fast, thinking of Ellie, and Olly and Lucy, and the Latimers, and even Tom himself. Poor kid, she certainly doesn’t envy him becoming another brick in the wall that Jocelyn must assail to win this case. He’s officially in her way now, and it’s never good to be in Jocelyn Knight’s way. Nor does she envy Jocelyn, having to cross-examine the still-grieving best friend of a dead boy. “Why?!”

Jocelyn shakes her head, uncertain of the answer to Maggie’s question. “A son supporting his father?”

“Poor Ellie,” Maggie says as she lifts her cup to her lips. But no sooner has she taken a sip than she processes that Jocelyn has offered a question rather than a definitive statement, and she has to swallow the hot tea too quickly, burning the back of her tongue. “Wait! Do you think there’s something else? Some other information that the defence has that you don’t?”

“I don’t know,” responds Jocelyn flatly, drinking her own tea. It’s an honest answer. Mostly, but she does have her concerns. These, though, are not to be shared. She looks squarely at Maggie, by way of putting an end to that particular path of inquiry. “We’ll all find out at the same time tomorrow.”

Maggie nods. This is a fine line they’re walking. They are Maggie and Jocelyn, it’s true. But they are also a journalist and the Crown Prosecutor doing their respective jobs on the same criminal trial.

“What about you, though?” Maggie shakes her head and reaches for Jocelyn’s forearm, resting a supportive hand there. “I can’t imagine having to cross examine a kid. That must be a tricky needle to thread.”

“You’ve no idea.”

"What’s the plan?”

Jocelyn shrugs. “That’s what Ben and I were working on when I finally gave up and told him to go home.”

“Shit, Jocelyn.” Maggie sighs and is silent, thinking.

Jocelyn nods in frank agreement. She wouldn’t put it quite that way, but yes, that just about sums it up. She takes another sip of tea and decides to move on. “Right. Enough of my troubles. How was _your_ day?”

This easy conversation reminds Jocelyn so much of those letters and phone calls of long ago, when she relished learning about the little everyday details in the life of the _Echo_ ’s vibrant new editor. Hearing about everything from sports days and school plays to local politics, from Maggie’s search for a house to the ins and outs of newspaper publishing.

Jocelyn especially valued the intellectual engagement that debates with Maggie provided. As much as she was surrounded all day, every day by incredibly clever people, it was Maggie who challenged her to always ask more questions, to think more complexly, to look at things from previously unexplored angles. She had never known someone so widely read, with so many informed opinions about such a broad variety of topics, and so invested in wanting to tell stories about the lives and experiences of real people. Justly and conscientiously.

“Well, I can’t deny that I was delighted that the judge ended session early today. Worked out nicely for Olly and I in terms of getting this week’s edition finished. That’s how I happen to have a little time to be enjoying the evening out here with you,” she chuckles, leaning her shoulder playfully into Jocelyn’s arm. “And I was with Paul and Beth at the church earlier.”

“Oh?”

Maggie nods, “Beth wants to start a charity in Danny’s name, but she’s not sure what the focus or mission should be. Paul and I proposed a program to help rehabilitate former sex offenders.”

“Ah, Maggie,” Jocelyn rolls her eyes affectionately. Most people would suggest a scholarship or some type of community-based programming, but not Maggie. Always pushing boundaries, always on the cutting edge of trying to save the world. “You do just jump right on in, don’t you?”

“Beth wants Danny’s life to _mean_ something, Jocelyn, to _stand_ for something,” Maggie responds defensively. “It’s _men_ who overwhelmingly commit sexual violence. Against women, children, and other men. There must be a way to prevent that violence in the first place. _That’s_ where the help’s needed. But most people won’t go near it.”

Jocelyn exhales, knowing Maggie to be absolutely correct, but exhausted just thinking about what it must be like to live in her head. Still, Jocelyn so admires her energy, her passionate commitment to justice and equity.

“But,” Maggie continues, thinking about Beth’s reaction, “it was too much, too soon, I think.” She makes a mental note to talk to Beth tomorrow, make sure she’s alright.

Maggie and Jocelyn have ended up, rather predictably to anyone who knows their story, at the bench atop Briar Cliff, diagonally across the footpath from Jocelyn’s back gate. They are looking out to sea, taking in the golds, yellows, and pinks cast by the sun now low in the west. Neither mentions that New Year’s Eve fifteen years ago, although both cannot help but think of it: fireworks and champagne. Shoulders, hips, and thighs pressed together under layers of coats and clothes, only partly for warmth. And then the next morning, when it all went wrong.

They stand together there on the cliff, just off the footpath, wary of that bench and the mixed jumble of memories it holds, unsure if their walk has ended here.

“Is Lil coming for the weekend?” The question just pops out, as if Jocelyn’s brain has lost all control of her mouth. Bollocks!

“No…” Maggie shifts uncomfortably, adjusting for no particular reason the weight and angle of her bag on her hip. “The trial, everything… It was all a bit much for her. She called it quits a couple of weeks ago.” Maggie doesn’t say, of course, that Jocelyn being back in Maggie’s life was a huge part of the ‘everything.’ Or that it had been Lil who encouraged her to give Jocelyn another chance. Because times change. And so do people. And here they are.

Jocelyn nods, working quite hard to maintain a calm exterior while her insides dance, although in celebration or out of trepidation she’s not sure. The obstacles that have heretofore prevented her from putting things right with Maggie are falling away one by one by one. As if some divine force is willing them together. And she can see now that Maggie’s gift yesterday of an unassuming book of poetry may well be her attempt to help that force along. To provoke Jocelyn into action.

“Thank you for Charlotte Mew.”

“Have you read my favourite yet?”

“I’ve been patient,” Jocelyn replies enigmatically.

“Really?” Maggie is suspicious, but Jocelyn’s nods, a flip of her slender wrists and a spirited tilt of her head standing in for having to repeat herself.

“Will you recite it to me?”

“What, here? _Now_?!” Jocelyn nods, but Maggie protests, shaking her head at such a ridiculous proposition. “Don’t be daft! I don’t have it memorized.”

But having lovingly caressed and opened many times in the last twenty-four hours since it was gifted to her the dog-eared cover and well-worn pages of Maggie’s favourite collection of poems, Jocelyn knows full well that she most definitely, absolutely does have it memorized. Probably has for years.

Pursing her lips, Jocelyn looks sideways at Maggie, and Maggie knows she’s been found out. She smiles shyly and can feel her cheeks flush. It was all well and good to _say_ she would read the poem aloud to Jocelyn, but, now that she’s come face to face with reality, it’s another matter altogether to actually _do_ it.

“Yes, here. Now.” Jocelyn insists, finally sitting down on the bench and settling in determinedly for Maggie’s performance. “I want the rest of my present.”

“ _You_ are impossible,” Maggie exclaims, stalling, trying to work out a way to put Jocelyn off.

“And _you_ promised,” Jocelyn responds with a dramatically arched sardonic brow, crossing her arms in one of her deliciously classic sulks.

And Maggie’s suddenly more nervous than she’s been in years. “You’re really gonna make me do this?”

Looking back impatiently, Jocelyn gestures to Maggie to get on with it already.

She doesn’t sit on the bench beside Jocelyn. She can’t. Instead, she stays just where she is, to the left behind her, looking out across the Channel. It’s safer here. She inhales, and begins, timid at first, then with increased conviction as her heart remembers the profound meaning these words hold for her: 

> We passed each other, turned and stopped for half an hour, then went our way,  
>             I who make other women smile did not make you--  
>  But no man can move mountains in a day.  
>                    So this hard thing is yet to do.  
>    
>  But first I want your life:--before I die I want to see  
>                    The world that lies behind the strangeness of your eyes,  
>  There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering, it may be,  
>                               Yet on brown fields there lies  
>  A haunting purple bloom: is there not something in grey skies  
>                        And in grey sea?  
>                    I want what world there is behind your eyes.
> 
>                   I want your life and you will not give it me.

Maggie has come finally to sit on the bench beside Jocelyn. She continues on. There is more to the poem, but Jocelyn loses track of the words, enthralled as she is by the way the warm golden light of the setting sun plays on the fine lines around Maggie’s eyes. By the firm strength of her jawline in profile against the cliffs. By how the wind twists her hair wildly, causing her to forever be tucking it back in behind her right ear. By the shape of Maggie’s lips around the words... _  
_

“Peace!” Maggie declares, coming to the big finish, “Would you not rather die / Reeling,--with all the cannons at your ear?” 

> So, at least, would I,  
>                    And I may not be here  
>                     To-night, to-morrow morning or next year.  
>                    Still I will let you keep your life a little while,  
>                        See dear?  
>                      _I have made you smile._

And Jocelyn is. Smiling. That wonderful, radiant smile that reaches her eyes. And that causes a delicious tingle in Maggie that goes all the way down to her toes.

“Charlotte Mew, ‘On the Road to the Sea,’” Maggie pronounces rather awkwardly, as if by way of an introduction and a final bow all rolled into one. “I thought you might like her because you were reading Woolf and Sackville-West. Scholars think she was likely a lesbian. She often passed as a man and wrote from that perspective.”

Jocelyn’s lips curl into a soft, secret grin, and Maggie challenges, “What?”

“I already know all that, Maggie,” she replies. “Did you really think you’d give me such a treasure, and I wouldn’t learn all I can about its author?” She chides, “I know how to use Google, too, you know.”

Maggie laughs that full, infectious laugh that makes Jocelyn want to follow her anywhere. Just to be able to live inside joy.

“Also,” Jocelyn nudges her elbow into Maggie’s arm, “I have a confession to make: I did read it already. I couldn’t wait.”

“Ah hah!” Maggie exclaims triumphantly, turning to face Jocelyn full on, “I knew it! I _knew_ you wouldn’t be able to wait!”

Jocelyn snickers, but she’s also looking for a way in, an opening. To say what she needs to say. But she wishes she could know if Maggie still loves her before she puts her own heart on the line. Even though she knows that's unfair. Just be brave! She looks up into Maggie’s eyes and dares to touch her fingers ever so lightly to her thigh, just above her knee.

“Why is that one your favourite?” she asks softly.

Jocelyn’s thin fingers resting just there, on her thigh, but partly on her knee, too, quite simply, take Maggie’s breath away. She stares at them, and time seems to stand still. Suddenly there is only she and Jocelyn. On this bench. Again. And she is drawn back to that New Year’s Eve.

Jocelyn, in town for the holidays, came to find her near the bonfire on the beach, tempting her away from covering the town’s festivities with that seductive voice, the promise of fireworks atop the cliff, and champagne in real glass flutes. Her head on Jocelyn’s shoulder, Jocelyn’s cheek resting on her hair. Their walk in a blissful daze, arm in arm, back down to Maggie’s new house in town. The breathless anticipation in those soft kisses bestowed so tenderly by Jocelyn on the doorstep. That night Maggie knew, as certainly as she knows her own name, that she’d found her life in Broadchurch. And right now, in this moment, on this bench, being held in such reverence by Jocelyn’s tenders fingers, she feels as if they could so easily begin again. And she knows Jocelyn feels it, too.

She wants desperately to throw caution to the wind and twine her own fingers with Jocelyn's. They're both finally here, in the same place, at the same time. Almost as if the last fifteen years had been quite different, almost as if Jocelyn hadn't been afraid. And Maggie hadn't been so angry at her for running away. Let the chips fall where they may!

And then Maggie's phone shrills abruptly from the depths of her bag. “Oh, bloody hell!” she cries, first out of fright and then annoyance. Both women flinch at the infringement of the real world upon their wordless conversation being conducted in looks, breaths, and a soft touch.

While Maggie reaches in to fish out her phone, Jocelyn whips her hand away, as if doing so will erase the memory of having dared to touch Maggie so intimately at all.

It’s Olly. Could there be a less appropriate moment for such a disruption? Well, actually there could be… For fuck’s sake! Snapping her mind back to the present, she apologizes to Jocelyn with a contrite look and a raised finger, indicating this will only take a second. She swipes right to answer. “Hi, petal. Everything alright there?”

“Yeah, all good. Just wanted to check you have your keys before I lock up.”

“I do, thanks. You left the printouts on my desk, yes?”

“Right on top.”

“Great.”

“Also, Southhampton called. Jeremy wants to share resources on reporting that missing girl. They’re forty-eight hours out now, and no sign of her. The police are hoping the more coverage, the better.” Olly pauses. “He sounded pretty shaken up. She’s his wife’s sister’s niece or something.”

Shit. On so many levels. She’s not sure what resources Jeremy thinks she’s got over here, what with just she and Olly, one printer, three computers, some thumb tacks, and a few paper clips, but she’ll do what she can to help. “Yeah, okay,” she sighs heavily, “I’m heading back now. Good work tonight, petal. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Maggie ends the call, slides the phone back into her bag, and turns back to Jocelyn. “Sorry about that.”

“Everything alright?”

“Here, yes. In Southhampton, no. You’ve heard about that missing girl?”

Jocelyn nods.

“Turns out she’s related somehow to the editor over there. A niece or something. He’s a friend of mine.”

A very different sort of silence hangs between them now. It is heavy, dense, laden with grief and bewilderment and disbelief at the futility of it all. Another missing child. On the South Coast. Maggie’s reported on her fair share of horrible things, but it’s when those horrible things happen to children, or dogs, that she really wants to give up on humanity.

“Right,” exhales Maggie, rising from the bench, “I’ve got to head back.”

Jocelyn follows suit, and Maggie hands over her the paper cup. “I can give this to you, yes? You’ll deposit it into whatever receptacle it belongs these days.” Maggie shakes her head uncomprehendingly, “Recycling or whatnot.” It’s not that she doesn’t care, but they keep changing the rules.

With jovial insolence, hoping to improve Maggie’s flagging spirits a bit, Jocelyn holds the base of Maggie’s cup by the tips of her fingers and instructs, intentionally drawing out the syllables as if Maggie were a baby learning to speak, “Com-post.”

Narrowing her eyes, Maggie smirks. Jocelyn’s lucky she doesn’t kiss those impertinent lips closed right this minute. But she has to go back to work.

Before she goes, though, she returns to Jocelyn’s inquiry of a few moments ago and instructs, “And you, don’t ask questions to which you already know the answer. We're both way too old for that.” Squeezing Jocelyn’s shoulder affectionately, she leans in to plant a kiss on her cheek, lingering just long enough to enjoy the summery scent of  lavender shampoo. “See you at court.”


End file.
